Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4)

by Cantwell, Karen

  “Are you speaking to me in riddles?” I asked, beginning to think I was onto a DaVinci’s Code-esque set of clues. “Should I be digging deeper into the meaning of your answers?”

  Steven rolled his eyes. “Nah,” he said. “Meryl there is workin’ wit a vocal coach, preparin’ for her role as Yoda’s wife in George Lucas’ first pre-quel to the pre-quels to the Star Wars Saga.” He called forward to her. “What’s dat movie gonna be called again?”

  Meryl dropped the Yoda voice. “Star Wars, Episode A-1: With You, May the Force Be. George is convinced he can erase Episodes One through Three from viewers’ memories and regain the love of his fans with this newest trilogy which explains that Jar Jar Binks was just a really, really bad dream.”

  I cringed. “I knew I was upset that Disney bought Lucasfilm,” I said. “But I never thought it would affect my hallucinations.”

  Steven shrugged, “Whatcha gonna do, right? If nuthin’ else, they’ll make their money back in DVD sales and merchandisin’.” He leaned in close and furrowed his brows. “And I ain’t Steven Spielberg, Barb. Ain’t ya figured out who I am?”

  The voice was familiar, now that he mentioned it.

  “You’re not Michael Corleone?” I asked.

  “Heh, don’t I wish? One day, though, I’d like ta meet Pacino, right? Here’s a clue.” Steven-not-Steven began to croon, “Come fly with me,” just like Frank Sinatra.

  Of course! How I didn’t see it sooner, I didn’t know. But as soon as I realized Steven-not-Steven was really my rehabilitated criminal friend, Frankie Romano, he transformed before my dream-state eyes. Frankie had once kidnapped me, but now we were tight, and looked out for one another.

  “Frankie!”

  “Yo, Barb,” he said with a smile. “Good ta see ya, although, da circumstances are less than copasetic, am I right?”

  “You hit that nail on the head.”

  “Listen, we ain’t got much time, so I’ll put it to you fast-like: dis broad, drivin’ da car,” he pointed to the front seat. “She ain’t Meryl Streep. It’s dat Ash chick and she’s got brains smaller than an alligator’s. Her husband too. Just remember, in dis, you got da upper hand.”

  “How about Howard? Is he okay?”

  “Da thing is, I ain’t real. Dis is just dream-Frankie, ya know?” He looked very apologetic, I must say. “I can only point out da tings you already know—on a subconscious level, dat is.”

  He sat back and pointed to my chest. “Oh, and one of those ribs might be broken. Nuthin’ time won’t heal when dis is all over, but, and dis is key, don’t let anyone know yous hurt. Don’t show da pain.”

  I nodded. “Don’t show da pain.”

  He was starting to fade when I wondered, why? Why not show da pain? But he and Yoda-Meryl were gone before I could ask the question. Just like the movies, in life, dreams only reveal enough to move the plot forward.

  I was awake when Rita Ash pulled her Mercedes to a stop. In my semi-conscious state, I missed the binding of my ankles and wrists. I now lay in fetal position in the backseat, with my bound hands near my face. I was able to see up through a sliver between the seat in front of me and the car door, and glimpse an outdoor lamp as it glowed from its secured location on a brick wall.

  Rita opened her door just as I heard the approaching motor of another vehicle. I craned my neck enough to see that the new arrival was a large pick-up truck. The slamming of Rita’s door and the crunching of her shoes on gravel was followed by discussion between a man and a woman. The voices were low and far too garbled for me to make out words.

  Inspecting my wrists more closely revealed that my captor had used decorative package ribbon to tie me up. According to dream-Frankie, she wasn’t a rocket scientist, and the curling ribbon bindings seemed to prove him correct. I pulled at the ribbon binding in hopes of loosening it before anyone had a chance to stop me. Unfortunately, not much loosening occurred before the door by my feet swung open and a large pair of hands grabbed my legs. I held my breath and braced myself, anticipating forced movement that would surely hurt like the dickens. Sure enough, the mystery hands tightened and yanked.

  Oh man it hurt, but I successfully bit back the urge to yelp in agony. Another yank, and I was out of the car. A third, and I’d been hoisted onto the shoulders of possibly the hugest man on earth. I felt easily ten feet off the ground and since I was now near the top of him, looking down, I could see his backside was very wide as well. This guy, I decided, if he had a shred of acting talent at all, could easily play Lennie in yet another movie remake of Of Mice and Men. I just hoped I wouldn’t go the way of that poor puppy or Curley’s wife.

  I turned my upside-down head a bit, working to see where I was. Rita was nowhere in my sights. I was, however, able to glimpse not one, but two trucks parked nearby. Lennie began moving and I bounced with each step. We were outside in what appeared to be the back of another strip mall. If it was a shopping center of any kind, I reasoned, and there were other people around, screaming might possibly save my life. On the other hand, screaming might incite the giant to squash me like a bug. I didn’t have much time to decide because Lennie, despite his size, moved at a decent clip. Hoping beyond hope that someone somewhere would hear and rush to my rescue, I risked it and wailed away.

  “Help!” Somehow the plea didn’t sound loud enough. I gave it another go. “Help! Help! Someone help me!” I was shrieking now.

  Lennie laughed. “You kin yell all yoo want outchere,” he drawled in a deep Southern tone. “Ain’t gonna do yoo one bitta good. We’re in the middle-a gosh-darn no wheres.”

  Gosh-darn? Did he really say gosh-darn?

  Not to beat a dead horse, but I had been kidnapped before, and always by people who liked a little more bite to their curse words. This, I had to say, was a refreshing change.

  Gosh-darn Lennie grabbed hold of a metal door, pulled and ducked. I swear, I am not making this up. He was so tall he had to duck to get us both through the door. He did a pretty good job until the metal door swung closed so fast that it bonked me hard on the head.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” said the Hagrid-sized man. He turned, I guess to see if I was okay, but since I was on his back he just ended up banging my head on the wall. I was beginning to think I’d survived a collision with a Mercedes only to have my life cut short by unintentional brain-bashing.

  “Oh,” he said, “sorry again.”

  Afraid he’d continue throwing me into walls and other hard objects, I interjected. “That’s okay,” I croaked, grinding my teeth from the pressure of my broken rib pressed against this man’s shoulder. “Just take me wherever you’re taking me, please.” The blood was starting to pool in my head, causing it to throb all the more.

  Apparently, that wasn’t far. In through one door we turned and voilà, there I was, on the shoulders of a giant, looking down at Peggy, Clarence, and Guy. They were bound hand and foot with duct tape, but only poor Peggy, for reasons I could guess pretty easily, had a big ol’ piece slapped across her mouth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clarence’s face brightened in what I read as relief when he saw me. Although I’m not sure why having me there was anything to be relieved about. Possibly he was happy to have another friendly face to die with?

  Guy had a bruise on his left cheek and his head was hat-less. I wondered if he’d lost his precious fedora in a struggle. Poor Guy. He wasn’t exactly equipped for violent encounters.

  “You okay, Guy?” I asked as Lennie-Hagrid lowered me gently to the concrete floor next to Peggy.

  “There have been times in my life,” he answered, “that were far superior, emotionally speaking, than this particular experience, thus far. The question, I guess, going forward, is, will things get better or worse?”

  Lennie-Hagrid chortled while lowering himself onto a stool near the opposite wall.

&
nbsp; “Barb’s here,” noted Clarence, “so I’m saying better. Right?”

  Guy released a mildly derisive grunt. “The problem with that logic is that Barb is here, and not elsewhere, seeking the assistance of law enforcement for our rescue. And, I might add, she looks like she’s been run over by a Mack truck.”

  “Just a Mercedes,” I said. “Do I look that bad?”

  “You won’t be taking a stroll down Project Runway anytime soon, let’s put it that way,” he answered. “Now, as long as her federally anointed husband is still at large, possibly there is hope for us yet.”

  Voices echoed in the hall outside our prison-room. Rick and Rita I was guessing. A moment later Howard appeared in the doorway, his hands above his head. He wasn’t tied up at all. Geez, he wasn’t bruised or beaten or anything. He limped very noticeably though, leading me to assume that he was not doing so well. Rick Ash appeared next, and even though I couldn’t see it yet, I was pretty sure he held a gun to Howard’s back.

  Guy’s head fell back against the wall, his spiky nose pointing to the unfinished ceiling above us. “That does it. We are officially doomed.” He gave this a moment to sink in, then followed with, “Unless, by some miracle, we are saved. In which case, this will make one hell of a good story. Emmy-worthy, possibly. I’ve always dreamed of winning a local Emmy,” he sighed.

  “Over there against the wall,” Rick instructed Howard. “But not too close to the others. And, uh...” he waved the gun around in circles like a gangster in a James Cagney movie. He was thinking. “Uh, sit on your hands. Yeah, sit on your hands.”

  Howard did as he said, slipping down to the floor against the wall a good six feet from Clarence. Rick stood in front of us, gun aimed in our general direction.

  A small chuckle—which didn’t seem so much happy as nervous—escaped from the man with the deadly gun. “I know you now,” he said to Guy. “You’re that freak show reporter on Channel...”

  “Ten,” assisted Guy. “Channel Ten. Local News at four and five. You might know my friend over there, as well—meet Clarence Heatherington, Channel Three’s movie reviewer.”

  Rick Ash’s face went from obliviously blank to stymied and mildly distressed. “Crap.” He scratched his beard with his free hand.

  He was a man of few words. And evidently not the most astute, which surprised me since he was a business owner. But, if what Peggy said was true, he wasn’t savvy as an entrepreneur either. Thus, the lack of aptitude made more sense.

  “You okay?” Howard asked, giving me a visual once-over. Bless him, those puppy-dog eyes expressed his worry more deeply than the question.

  I would have loved to have shouted, “No! I need a doctor! Karate-chop this man with the gun and get me to a hospital quick!” but dream-Frankie said this would be wrong. Don’t show da pain. I smiled weakly. “Doin’ good,” I said, “doin’ good. The Mercedes though, probably won’t make it through the night.”

  “What happened?”

  “You didn’t see?”

  “Otherwise occupied at the time.”

  “Right. Well, your abductor’s wife wanted to play bumper cars, only she played dirty and started before the buzzer sounded.”

  My butt was starting to ache, not to mention go numb from the hard, cold concrete. For the first time, I gave my surroundings some inspection. Our stockade, if you will, was a room probably about ten feet by fifteen feet. The walls were unfinished. It reminded me of how our basement looked before they sanded and painted the drywall when we had it renovated. In fact, a bucket of something was still sitting in one corner, as well as a dry sponge and a putty-knife. Electrical outlets and light switches were naked without covers, and on the wall ahead of me and behind Rick Ash, several dangling cords protruded from the wall—unused, unconnected. There was no ceiling to speak of, just open ductwork and darkness. A stack of ceiling tiles leaned against one wall indicated they had eventual plans to hide the ductwork. The only door led to a hallway with the same unfinished atmosphere.

  Peggy had mentioned a second restaurant that wasn’t getting off the ground. This might be it, although I had pictured an open establishment struggling to find clientele. This place was struggling to find a life. The Ashes’s must have had a ton of money wrapped up in another Big Score that wasn’t scoring them any monetary return at the present. Liquidating a long-lost Civil War-era treasure would probably go a long way in alleviating any financial stress.

  I considered our captors. I’d already pegged Rick Ash as less-than-clever, but he had the gun and a scary nickname, so he wasn’t to be dismissed. And Rita, while I hadn’t had a chance to chat, had certainly revealed herself as lead-footed and willing-to-kill. But this giant man-boy, whose real name I hadn’t yet learned, was sizing up to be kind and gentle and very possibly our ticket out of this joint, hopefully all in one piece rather than chopped into dog-tasty, bite-sized morsels like poor Orson Sparrow.

  Rita returned, black sweat pants and all. She stood next to Rick, one hand on her hip, the other twirling strands of hair that had slipped out from the haphazard bun at the back of her head. She wore a surprisingly dirty pair of running shoes with a bright magenta stripe, a crusty blue t-shirt covered by an unzipped, darker blue hoodie, and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra. Now, I understand that this wasn’t very important to our dire circumstances, but she was the kind of woman who needed to wear a bra—who bras were invented for. Me, if I wear a bra, it’s just for show, because the sad fact of the matter is, what little I have needs no holstering. But Rita Ash—her gallon milk jugs needed serious support. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but she had features that suggested just a little would go a long way and somehow, she looked vaguely familiar now that I saw her up close, but I couldn’t place how. Possibly we shopped at the same grocery store?

  The two of them stood there, Rick packing his scruffy beard and 9mm menace and Rita with her menacing mammaries, not speaking, just looking at us like they’d look at a piece of furniture that didn’t seem nearly as stunning in their living room as it did on the showroom floor.

  “This is a mess,” Rita finally sighed.

  Rick raised his eyebrows as if surprised, but then just agreed, “A mess.”

  They eyed us several seconds longer. Then Rick turned on her. “What were you thinking, bringing those four here?”

  She stopped her hair twirling to give him a glare. “It was your idea, remember?”

  Silence again, and I was beginning to thank my lucky stars that my most recent captors did not seem very decisive.

  “Five hostages!” She threw her arms into the air for emphasis. “Five hostages. What are we going to do with five hostages? I can just kiss that Happy Housewives gig goodbye. I was so close, too.”

  Aha! Now I knew who Rita Ash was and boy, she could clean up nice when she wanted to. A year earlier, she’d been involved in some big stink over a political fund-raising event held in the District. She claimed she had an invitation, but she wasn’t on the guest list, and all annoyed and full of herself, she barged in anyway. The ballyhoo made national news, if I remembered right, and just a few weeks ago, I had seen a local news piece announcing she was being considered for the newest cast of Happy Housewives in D.C.. I couldn’t believe Guy didn’t pick up on this earlier.

  “Guy,” I said giving him an irritated glance, “how didn’t you know who Rita Ash was?”

  He shrugged. “Who is she?”

  “The famous party crasher—you know, last year. Whose fundraiser was that?”

  “Senator Williams,” Rita said flatly. “I had an invitation.”

  Some sense of recognition lit on Guy’s face. “Yes. I remember that story.” He shook his head. “Falls under entertainment and I don’t get those assignments nearly as often as I’d like. A chance to attend a premiere screening every once in a while, but my beat’s mostly the kille
rs.”

  “We’re not killers,” retorted Rita.

  “Excuse me,” apologized Guy. “I did not mean to imply that you were.”

  I seriously wanted to argue Rita’s assertion that she wasn’t a killer, since it sure did feel like she was trying to do me in with that car stunt.

  “Actually,” Rick said to Rita. “We’re not killers, but you are. At least, by definition, right?”

  Who were these people anyway?

  “I told you it was an accident,” she growled, her eyes blazing. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  Rick let out a sardonic chuckle. “Right, and you had an invitation.”

  “I did have an invitation!” Rita’s face flamed red.

  Rick and Rita were not a happy couple. Probably a lot of stress there, what with all of the murdering, cleaving, and kidnapping. I wondered if Rita knew about his little Dandi dalliance.

  While we were on the subject of hurting people, I decided to ask about Colt. Did I think it was likely they’d give me a straight answer? No, but at least I could watch their reaction.

  “What did you do with my friend, Colt?”

  Not the slightest tick of recognition registered on either of their faces. “Colt who?” asked Rita.

  “Don’t give me that. I know you’re not that dumb. Blond PI who was following you yesterday.” I pointed to Peggy. “The last time she saw him was on your street. Explain that.”

  The dissatisfied spouses exchanged blank expressions. “You know about this?” Rick asked Rita.

  “No,” she answered. “You?”

  They seemed truly stumped. It was very hard to tell if they were playing me or not.

  “I’m figuring he slipped into your house, found evidence you’d killed Orson Sparrow, so you took him hostage like you have us now. Is he still in your house? What did you do with him?”